Chapter Text
Like all simply absurd, very unreasonably magical stories, it started with a door.
He discovered the door in his bedroom one morning, not long after he'd settled in and (had his manservants) unpacked his suitcases. He'd dropped a cuff link on the floor, the accessory skidding to one edge of the room, under a closet. Pushed the closet to the right, and there it was.
Door. Wooden. Plain, no carved patterns or anything slightly indicative of its origin or nature.
He'd read Narnia with Peter when he was young. This was kid's stuff. This was only one of those old house mechanisms, a trick. He'd opened the door and find it blocked on the other side, or some shit like that.
Doesn't hurt to prove himself wrong.
The cuff link forgotten, and intent on missing the morning's board meeting somehow (Oh, Mr. Osborn couldn't make it. How tragic. That leech Menken would smile his widest. His Felicia would have to take the blow, all by herself. Too bad.), he smoothed the vest he was wearing (the uniform was complete. Shirt, tie, vest, trousers. He'd dressed in the same manner for years, even as the precocious brat people would attempt to coo over at prep school. Harry this, Harry that. Took him several years to master the polite version of Go fuck yourself's to throw at them.) and turned the knob.
Unlocked. Of course.
A stream of classical music flew into his room. Took him a moment to recognize (from his Met Concert days) that it was Brahms. The room on the other side was brightly lit. Someone (ha) was smoking—the odor was unmistakeable. Wasn't one to peek, when he'd seen and heard all he needed. So he stepped in.
The room was vast, its breadth probably the size of his room. There was a half circular window in the center of the wall. Piles of books and papers scattered across the floor. A desk was at one end of the window, a bookshelf on the other, and a mattress in the middle.
The blond, lounging on the mattress, was eyeing him with interest.
"You're not from around here, aren't you?"
He was wearing a dark navy sweater over his white, striped shirt, a maroon scarf hanging untied over his neck. Short blonde hair, about the same length as his, immaculately kept. The same hypnotic blues staring back at him. The thin, chiseled nose, the upturned lips. A lit cigarette between his middle and index finger. A voice, breathy, suave.
Harry's jaw dropped.
"Is this some sort of a joke?" he asked, turning around, eyes looking for hidden cameras.
"Funny you should say that," continued the blond, taking another puff of his cigarette, "You're the one barging into my room."
Wait. What?
"Your room," Harry repeated, slow, deliberate, as if he was learning the phrase for the first time, "This was my room."
The blond raised an eyebrow, took the cigarette from his lips, and was pointing at him with the burning end. "You smoking something I haven't seen before? This is Columbia, hotshot."
"Columbia," he was getting fed words from this mysterious doppelgänger of his like a docile, drugged child. At least he was in the City. "I-"
Shock caused him to stammer.
That face caused him to be nervous.
How could they be so alike physically, down to the lithe, lanky frame, and yet.
The blond burst out laughing, putting his cigarette in the ashtray on the floor. He got to his feet and was digging around the end of the room near the desk, before emerging with a bottle of liquor and two glasses.
One was handed to him, the liquid subsequently poured to the brim.
It was eight thirty, Manhattan time. He'd been woken up because of his iPhone's alarm clock, and now he was standing in the room of some guy dressed like a vintage men's fashion catalogue come to life, his ears filled with Brahms, his hand holding a glass of some liquor he's never heard of.
"Libation," said the blond, returning the bottle to its place and taking a sip of his drink, "Perhaps you'll regain some traces of memories before you blacked out, hm?"
"I-" he ran a hand through his hair, drink untouched, "Who are you?"
An answer turned into a question. He'd rather have something in his arsenal, a knowledge of this man, this room, than not at all.
"Arthur Rimbaud," the blond had a cheeky smile on his face, to accompany the lazy drawl, as he extended a hand.
Harry slapped the hand away, "Bullshit. Rimbaud never went to Columbia."
The blond chuckled, downed his drink in one swig. "Gave myself away, didn't I?" He leaned in closer. Hot breaths. And Harry jumped, gave the slightest start. Part of his drink was spilled on the floor. "And Rimbaud sure doesn't look like me as you do."
So he noticed.
"Most peculiar, don't you think?" The blond was still talking. He'd tuned himself back in time (pun not intended). "The question is, who are you?"
He took a step back, almost tripping over a hardback copy of Whitman's Leaves of Grass (who even printed hardbacks like that anymore? Unless...
No.)
"I asked you first," he stood his ground, voice firm, finishing the drink and leaving it on the floor.
"Lucien Carr," the name came sizzling out, "Poet extraordinaire."
That name. Wait a minute.
"And you are?"
The blond was close again, too close, finger grazing his cheek. Eyes boring into his.
A literal instance of looking into himself- even when it's not, well, exactly himself. He was certain his brain was halfway to melting.
"Harry Osborn," he replied, sharp, despite it almost being a whisper, "Oscorp CEO."
He heard a light, blissful laugh from the blonde, no, Lucien (if that's who he claimed he was), and his cheeks were being cupped. A pair of lips descended on his, gentle, curious. There was tongue, exploring, and he'd lost himself and kissed him back for the briefest moment.
Lucien's lips curled up, his eyes complacent, when he broke away.
"Have always wondered what that would feel like," he said, and, as though nothing had happened, sank back down on the mattress, in front of Harry, "Osborn. Never heard of it before," more musing to himself than to the brunette.
Harry was still standing, slack jawed, wet lips, and the strange, strangest blip of want throbbing his nerves.
"Never-?"
Fuck me, no really, really fuck me.
Fuck me hard, so I can't think, can't breathe. Fuck me so the only coherent thing in my mind is your name. Fuck me so I'm asking for more. More of you. Everywhere.
"What do you mean? This is NYC."
Fuck me, because you're not the first attractive stranger I've met.
Fuck me, because I haven't the slightest idea about you, and that's hell of a convenience.
"This is 1943. There's no Oscorp here."
Fuck me, because this is a messed up time portal in a goddamn children's book.
Fuck me, because you're like looking into a mirror, a doppelgänger in a trance.
Fuck me, because I could wake up at any moment and find it all a dream and you wouldn't matter.
"It's 2014 where I came from."
Lucien was giggling, a boisterous, childish sound, "You have it worse than I thought," he shot him a look, smirking, "Now you're going to say men walk on the moon."
Harry shook his head, "Fuck it." The kiss. The shock had washed over him. "You wouldn't believe me anyway."
He shrugged off his jacket. Tossed it to the floor. Unbuttoned his vest and climbed on the mattress, beside the blonde.
He reached for Lucien's cheek. The blond turned, lips enveloping his finger, eyes teasing, and Harry's cock twitched.
He let Lucien suck on his finger, a couple of interminable, drawn out seconds. He'd leaned down and kissed him on the lips when the blond let him go, his legs straddling the blond's thin form.
"So how about it?" he whispered, taking the maroon scarf off Lucien's neck.
"How about what, stranger?"
But Lucien was already working at his shirt's buttons, devilish grin on his lips as he pressed himself up against Harry, making his apparent need known.
"Solum semel vivis, am I right?" he breathed, and Harry moaned.
"Solum semel vivis," he repeated, voice hoarse, as he allowed Lucien's hands to wander, his own eyes closed.
Solum semel vivis, so fuck me, Solum semel vivis.